It wasn’t your fault the door wouldn’t lock. It wasn’t your fault you loved your dogs so much you hugged them where they lived in the barn, then you got spanked because of bringing in the dog hair. It wasn’t your fault you turned purple–bruised–because your dad got mad, because you didn’t un-peel an orange right. It wasn’t your fault you let in your dad when your mother begged you not to. It wasn’t your fault he kept calling you a screw-up. You were one and two and three and four and five and six, seven, eight and nine and ten and eleven and twelve and thirteen. How was it your fault, on that one day, sitting next to him in church, your dad shouted out for his Lord God to save him? It wasn’t your fault that the pastor and the congregation halted, with their eyes on you.
Wasn’t it nice, some days, when you could run out to the field? Circling and spinning? Looking up? Just putting your arms out?